


Silence the Pianos

by hippocampers



Category: History Boys - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 08:36:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13210002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocampers/pseuds/hippocampers
Summary: "My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong."Scripps moves on.





	Silence the Pianos

**Author's Note:**

> title & quote are of course from w.h. auden's "Stop All The Clocks", or "Funeral Blues".

The doorbell rings. Scripps sets aside his mug – the one with the stripes, grey and green – and raises from the armchair to answer it. He hopes whoever it is won’t stay long; they’re interrupting Emmerdale.

“Hello. Donald, is it?” A middle-aged lady stands at the door, clutching a little red bag in French-manicured hands.

“Yes,” Scripps nods, pretending not to flinch at the use of his Christian name. Nobody uses that any more. “Can I help?”

“I’m here about the piano,” the woman at his doorstep explains. She keeps looking over Scripps’ shoulder at the near-empty lounge behind him, a mix of pity and revulsion twisting her delicate features. “Is this—”

“Oh, Anita, right? Yeah, come in,” Scripps stands aside, allowing her a proper look at his sparse home. House. It’s hardly a home nowadays. He nudges a box – _FRAGILE: Plates and Books_ – away from the door. “Do you want some tea? Kettle’s just boiled.” It’s a lie, but Scripps’ mum has taught him nothing if not the skill of hospitality.

Anita shakes her head. “No, thank you. Just the piano, if that’s alright.” She inclines her head towards the instrument, raising a brow. “Is this it?”

Scripps resists the urge to tell her no, that’s his violin. Instead he nods with a bland smile. “Yup.”

“It’s in wonderful condition,” she tells him, running her hand across the varnished wood. Scripps closes his eyes tightly, forcing back images of David doing the very same during their musical rendezvous.

* * *

 

_“You must take better care of this than yourself,” David teases, running his hand across the smooth piano-top as he leans against it. He quirks an eyebrow coyly and Don can’t help a grin. “I suppose you love it more than me?”_

_“Her,” Don corrects fondly. “She’s a lovely lady, and deserves the utmost care. Not-“ he stands, nudging in the stool and sliding between David’s legs, leaning close enough that their lips nearly touch, “-as much as you, though. If you fancy a tickle of your ivories-“ he lets a broad hand cup David’s cheek, thumb caressing his cheekbone lightly in the way that makes David blush, “you just let me know.”_

_David giggles then follows it up with a quick groan. “Donald, that’s truly terrible. But you can tickle my ivories any time, so long as I can polish your wood.” He waggles his eyebrows in what Don can only assume is a flirty manner._

_There’s a second’s silence before Don can’t repress his guffaw, forehead resting on David’s shoulder as he shakes with laughter. “Davy, you’ve made a blowjob sound like the least seductive thing possible, and yet I still love you.”_

_“Good,” David grins, satisfied. He always did like making Don laugh. “I love you too.”_

* * *

 

“You must take good care of it.”

“Her,” Scripps replies reflexively, and hates himself for the symmetry. The woman looks confused. It’s abundantly clear that this piano is not for her. Scripps mutters; “Not that it matters. Just silly sentimentality. Do you play?”

Anita shakes her head. “Oh, no. Never got the hang of it. No, this is for Robin, my son. He’s just starting lessons, you see, and I thought it might be a nice 13th birthday present. Of course, I’d rather get him something second-hand while he’s learning, just in case.”

“Ahh,” Scripps says. He couldn’t care less about Robin. In fact, he almost hates Robin for getting this as a birthday present, for being young and full of life and hope and love. Except he’s never met bloody Robin and that hatred would be irrational. “Well, if you’re interested, I’m moving out of here on Sunday, and working long days Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday, so Thursday would be good for me.”

Anita seems surprised. “You work a lot!”

“Ha. Yes,” Scripps nods curtly, reaching for his coffee to hold. “That’s the job, I’m afraid.”

* * *

 

_“I barely see you anymore.”_

_“Don’t be ridiculous. You see me every night!”_

_David scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Yes, for all of twenty minutes before you’ve rolled over and gone to sleep, then you’re up and gone before I even wake to go to the loo. We haven’t been intimate for-“_

_“-Weeks, yes, I know,” Don squeezes the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses rub insistently. Too much time looking at a screen. “That’s the job, I’m afraid.”_

_“It’s been months.” David’s tone is sharp, monotonous. It wouldn’t come as a surprise to Don if he’d been keeping a diary. ‘Day 43- Donald still absent. I feel myself entering monkhood entirely unwillingly.’ “You don’t even kiss me.”_

_“I do!” Don protests. “I do. Every morning. Before I-“_

_“-Leave?”_

_Don sighs. “Yes. Before I leave. Look, I’m sorry. It won’t always be like this. But we’ve just bought this house, and it’s not exactly cheap, especially when you’re hardly earning much—” He cuts himself off as the expression on David’s face shifts quickly from mildly irritated to ice-cold. Fuck. “Wait—”_

_David snaps his book shut, setting it on the bedside table with a softness incongruent with his rage. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry for not contributing enough. I didn’t realise that doing something I care about and maintaining some integrity instead of throwing myself into work at the_ Daily Mail- _“ This is said with revulsion, a twist of David’s lip that is not altogether attractive. It strikes Don that this is the first time he’s aware of any part of David being ugly.  “-was so burdensome. I didn’t realise that it was me making us stay in bloody London instead of moving somewhere cheaper because ‘I don’t want to be stuck writing for some local rag, Davy! I want to_ really _write!” He stands up, sliding his feet into slippers Don doesn’t remember him buying. “I’ll be on the sofa.”_

_“David—” Don reaches out in vain. “I’ll go downstairs, stay here-“_

_“No,” David says, not turning to face Don. “You take the bed. After all, you’re the breadwinner.” And with that, the door is slammed, the slapping of David’s slippers on the bare floor echoing through the walls._

_Fuck._

* * *

 

“I understand. My husband’s a consultant at Saint Bartholomew’s; we did our fair share of late nights in the early days,” Anita smiles to herself, as though reminiscing. She returns to inspecting the piano though doesn’t halt the conversational efforts. “Do you have a wife? Girlfriend? This seems an awfully large house for one on their own.”

“Ah,” Scripps shakes his head, not even attempting a smile this time. “Not anymore.”

At this, Anita looks up. Her eyes shine with an excitement seen only in middle-aged ladies tempted with a little gossip. “Oh, that’s such a shame. Did she, you know...?”

“He. And no. We separated. He’s in Sheffield now.”

“Oh!” Anita seems to pause, rearranging her expression of surprise into something less overt. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Scripps says, and means it.

* * *

 

_There’s a note on the kitchen table. He notices that before noticing that David’s mugs are gone, as are the embroidered cushions from the sofa and the awful rug that Don had never liked. He sits down heavily, and glances over the lines of writing. It strikes Don that now, he barely recognises the penmanship; once upon a time, David’s handwriting and his own had merged into a hybrid of the two, hours spent writing notes to one another in lectures or reading each other’s work taking its toll. Now, though, David’s writing is like a stranger’s._

**_‘Donald. You’re working late again, so when you read this, I will be gone. I am at a loss as to arranging my own words to tell you how I feel, so I am taking the cowardly path and returning to our school-day tactic of communicating solely through poetry. I’m certain you will understand._ **

**My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong _._**

**_And I am sorry. I so desperately did not want it to come to this,’_ ** _the note reads. ‘ **But it pains me so to be so near yet so far from you. It pains me to look at you and see not the man I loved but a half-hearted facsimile – I presume the true Donald is still at the Mail offices. I will be in touch regarding finances, but for now, I need time away. Please don’t try to get in touch, trust in me that I am safe. I’m sorry.’**_

_A teardrop falls on the bottom of the paper, causing the ink of David’s signed ‘D’ to blur. No matter. Don needs no signature to know who this is from. He stands shakily, making his way to the fridge on autopilot and taking out a bottle of lager. Just the one, though. Work in the morning._

* * *

 

“So…” Anita begins after an unfortunately lengthy silence. “I can come by on Thursday evening to collect it?”

For a brief moment, Scripps considers telling her no, she can’t have it, the piano isn’t for sale. He considers sitting down and playing for the first time since David left, as though a rusty rendition of _L'Accordéoniste_ will have David running through the doors and back into his arms. How romantic, Scripps thinks, that the music that brought them together in the first place would be the soundtrack to their long-awaited reunion.

But reality returns to him soon enough, and Scripps nods with the best smile he can muster. “Alright. You can bring the money then, if that’s alright.” Anita looks pleased with this, as though this stranger’s trust means the world to her.

“Of course,” she nods. “What did we say again? £575?”

They’d said £650, but Don is honestly too tired to argue. He nods, and Anita looks briefly surprised once more, before catching herself. It’s clear she’s not a professional haggler. “Fantastic. Right. I’ll see you then.” She says, offering a hand which Scripps takes before showing her to the door. She hesitates at the threshold. “And… I am sorry, truly. About your… friend. I hope you find him again.”

Scripps smiles weakly. “Thank you. Drive safely,” he murmurs, before closing the door, alone with the piano and Emmerdale once more.

He leans against the wall, looking at the grand piano as though it were a rabid animal. he supposes the rabid animal might be a little less painful to watch. And yet as with rabid animals, one feels the urge to put them out of their misery. The misery, in this case, belongs solely to Scripps.

All of a sudden, the urge to _do something_ kicks in, and Scripps is finally doing what he hasn’t been able to for months. He finds himself sitting on the ever-uncomfortable stool and letting his fingers reacquaint with the keys. He plays a note, then another, and another, until he’s mid-way through _Bewitched_ from memory. He only stops upon being interrupted by the slamming of his letterbox – as though someone wants to get in but can’t find the bell.

Don’s hands freeze on the keys for a moment, before he’s bolting to the door. He can barely open the latch his hands are shaking so badly, but it’ll all be worth it when he sees-

There’s nobody there. It was the wind and nothing more. Don finds himself staring at the empty street, tears filling his eyes, unashamed. Of course it wasn’t David. It could never have been David.

Don shuts the door, putting the latch and chain in place robotically; the nightly routine still intact. He draws the curtains, turns off the outside light, and makes his way back to the lounge, where Emmerdale still plays on the television.

On his way to the armchair, Scripps stops. With a heavy heart but steady hands, he closes the piano lid and walks away.

**Author's Note:**

> happy new year, folks! 
> 
> you can find me in the depths of tumblr at [sushi-for-cats](sushi-for-cats.tumblr.com). as ever, i really appreciate comments etc., constructive criticism is really useful for me.
> 
> enjoy 2018 and remember the daily mail is a worthless rag xo


End file.
